


the cybotic boy and his werewolf mechanic

by RainbowRandomness



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Clothes Sharing, Derek is still a werewolf yo, M/M, Stiles gets bullied and needs a patch up from his mechanic Derek, Stiles is a cyborg, bed sharing, cyborg AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 05:30:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1928433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainbowRandomness/pseuds/RainbowRandomness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>cyborg au where Stiles was hit by a car when he was young and has robotic parts that need to be upgraded as he ages, Derek is his mechanic</p>
            </blockquote>





	the cybotic boy and his werewolf mechanic

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a lot fluffier than it's turned out I swear to god.

It’s late when Derek hears a knock on his loft door. It’s raining heavily outside, the skies dark and bleak, filled with dull, grey clouds that light up occasionally with lightning, the roar of thunder following soon after. Derek doesn’t mind the weather, feels it rather suits his personality, but it makes him wonder who would be out in such weather at such a late hour of the night?

He gets up from his position on the sofa, muting the television as it illuminates the room until he flicks on the lamp that sits on the table at the end of the sofa closest to the door. It fills the area with a warm yellow glow as Derek pads over to the large metal door and slides it open.

The first thing he notices is that Stiles is soaking, his grown out hair dripping into his eyes, his baggy shirt clinging to his skin. Blood is seeping through the wet fabric of his lower left side and blood is running down his left arm as well, the red liquid hanging as droplets from Stiles’ long fingers before they drip onto the floor.

“What’s happened Stiles?” Derek asks as his eyes return to Stiles’ face. The mole freckled boy smiles at him sheepishly before saying, “Would you believe me if I said I’ve done nothing wrong?”

Derek pulls him inside, sliding the door closed behind him as he brings Stiles’ into the loft, water and blood dripping onto the floor and creating a trail as he leads Stiles further into the room. He leads him over to his work station, a table set up by the floor to ceiling window with a stool placed either side of the cool surface. Derek sits Stiles down onto the closest stool before he reaches down to grip the edge of Stiles’ shirt. He feels Stiles suck in a breath as he pulls the shirt up to inspect the damage done to his lower ribs and he winces at the sight of the cuts and wounds, metallic bones shining through as blood oozes out sluggishly.

He tugs at the shirt until Stiles raises his arms and then he pulls off the wet material, leaving Stiles sat there, the lightning outside flashing to light up the smooth expanse of pale skin. Derek looks away, handing Stiles the shirt as he says over his shoulder, “Wait here, I’ll get you a towel.”

He passes by Stiles, his arm brushing Stiles’ bare skin, which causes them both to shiver involuntarily, and makes his way towards the bathroom. He grabs a large bowl from beneath the sink and fills it with warm water and then grabs a nearby towel. He grabs a cloth on his way out of the bathroom and walks up behind Stiles, dumping the soft towel upon his head. Derek puts the bowl and cloth down onto the table as Stiles reaches up with his free hand to move the material from out of his line of vision to see Derek as he wanders off towards his bedroom. Once he gets there, he opens one of the drawers of the dresser placed next to his bed and pulls out a shirt and some jogging bottoms, both articles of clothing look soft and well worn. He closes the drawer and wanders back over, placing the shirt and jogging bottoms on the table next to Stiles.

“I’ll clean your wounds and then you can change into these, okay?” Derek says softly and Stiles nods as he slips the towel down from his head to hang around his neck. He lifts his left arm up onto the table, the skin ripped in places, exposing muscle and parts of the metallic bone that replaced his original ulna, and his is nervously clenching and unclenching his wet shirt where he holds it in his hand.

“What happened Stiles?” Derek asks again as he leans against the table, his arms crossing over his chest. Stiles shrugs and looks up to meet Derek’s eyes and lightning strikes outside, illuminating the room in a flash of white for a moment, Stiles’ skin appearing unearthly pale. Derek refrains from admiring the smooth expanse of mole freckled skin that is often hidden beneath baggy shirts and plaid overshirts, the dark lining of hair leading down to his boxers a stark contrast to the milky skin.

Stiles sighs, drawing Derek’s attention back up to his face. His head is lowered, eyes looking first to his tattered arm and then to his lower left ribcage where more skin has been damaged and is once again exposing metallic bones. Derek walks over to the other side of the table and leans down, rooting around in the desk drawers beneath the table before placing what he was looking for onto the table’s surface. He places a syringe filled with a clear serum and layer or two of synthetic skin onto the table and sits down on the other stool. He notices that Stiles’ leg is jiggling nervously but Derek isn’t sure as to why.

They sit in silence for a while as Derek begins working on Stiles’ arm, picking out bits of dirt and gravel and a few shards of glass. Derek inspects one of the glass shards, green in colour, and he can smell the lingering alcohol on it. He winces in sympathy for Stiles before resuming his work. Stiles doesn’t even seem fazed by the glass being plucked out of his skin; his gaze is lowered to the floor, distant, as if lost in thought.

After a while, Stiles finally says in an almost murmur, “It was nothing really. Just some bullies, I guess.”

Derek doesn’t say anything, lets Stiles take his time in telling him what happened. His arm is almost clear of any glass or dirt, so Derek wets his washcloth in the bowl of warm water he set up on the table earlier and begins washing Stiles’ arm slowly, almost soothingly. It takes a while before Stiles starts talking again.

“Nothing happened, not really. A couple of lacrosse players from the opposite team saw my eyes flash gold on the field and they got a bit spooked, so they...” Stiles trails off for a moment as Derek places a layer of synthetic skin atop the deep cuts and gashes on Stiles’ arm. Derek stands up then, moving round to the other side of the table to begin removing any dirt and gravel, and possibly glass, from the area around Stiles’ lower left ribcage.

Stiles turns in his seat and leans back so that the small of his back is pressed against the cool surface of the table behind him, his elbows resting on the table to support his weight. Derek brings the bowl of water closer to the tables edge so he can reach it better and bends down to kneel in front of Stiles so he can begin cleaning the wounds on Stiles’ stomach. Stiles’ free hand, the one not holding his shirt, twitches for a moment, as if he wants to reach out, but he clenches his hand into a fist and allows it to hang over the table’s edge. He winces when Derek pulls out a shard of glass from one of the cuts just below his rib.

“What did they do Stiles?” Derek asks softly, eyes focused on the wounds he is picking clean. Stiles stomach tenses every now and then, the muscles jumping under Derek’s touch, and Derek wants to run his fingers along his stomach, up his chest, until they settle at Stiles’ throat so he can feel Stiles’ racing pulse. But he doesn’t do that, instead continues to clean out the wounds of any lingering dirt.

Stiles bites his lips as he watches Derek before letting out a breath and saying, “They ambushed me when I was going back to the locker rooms. They managed to grab me and pull me around the corner by the car park and,” he sighs, “They just kinda went to town on me, I guess. Called me a freak, asked me what was wrong with me, accused me of cheating on the field, all that sort of stuff. One of them shoved me against the wall and then...”

He pauses again and Derek moves onto dipping the washcloth into the warm water and cleaning out the rest of the dirt left in the cuts on Stiles’ ribs. His grip on the washcloth is tight from how angry he is at these unknown bullies but his strokes are gentle as he cleans out the cuts that are no longer bleeding.

Stiles sighs again, his eyes slipping shut as the water runs along his skin and sinks into the damp fabric of his jeans. His head falls back on an exhale as he whispers quietly into the silence of the room, “I guess I am a freak.”

Thunder strikes outside and the rain is still pouring heavily against the window panes as Derek leans up and slides his freehand to the back of Stiles’ neck, making him loll his head forward. His eyes are still closed though, and Derek pulls him closer, whispering, “Stiles,” until their foreheads are almost touching.

Derek has known Stiles since he was a kid and had his first check up with Derek as his new mechanic. He had read Stiles’ file at the hospital, he knows how Stiles came to be what he is.

Stiles had been eight when his mother died. He had run out of the hospital in tears and was hit by a car at the junction at the bottom of the road. The impact meant that most of his left side had been damaged, such as his arm, ribs, and the back of his head where it had impacted against the hard ground. It was only thanks to the W.O.L.F cybotic organization facilities that Derek worked with that were built into the hospital that Stiles even survived that night.

Most of the left side of Stiles is cybotic. With a chip in his mind and metallic bones and synthetic skin, Stiles’ veins glow a faint blue when healing and his eyes will flash gold when his mind is taking focusing in on different information all at once. Derek guesses this is how the boys on the opposite team must have seen Stiles’ gold eyes; from everything that happens on the field, the chip in Stiles’ brain must have activated to take in everything that was happening, focuses on each different movement the team was playing and calculating on how to play the game.

“Stiles,” he whispers again and the cybotic teen opens his eyes, warm and whiskey amber in colour. Derek allows himself to just breathe the same air Stiles for a moment, their breath mingling before Derek meets Stiles’ eyes and makes them glow their electric blue. He has always been ashamed of having his blue eyes, but even as Stiles sucks in a shaky breath, he doesn’t feel ashamed of them, not right in this moment, never when he shows them to Stiles.

Because as he shows Stiles his blue eyes, as he has done countless times before, Stiles does what he always does and makes his eyes glow gold in return.

It’s like watching sparklers on bonfire night, sparks flying as they wiz around Stiles’ iris until they form a perfect golden circle around his pupil, and if you pay close attention, you can see each individual spark exploding within his irises.

Another flash of lightening illuminates the room and as the roar of thunder follows, Derek is pulling Stiles just that bit further, or maybe Stiles is leaning forward, but how it happened doesn’t matter because their lips are crashing together, melding to one another’s lips like they were meant to. Derek drops the washcloth, forgetting that he was even holding it to begin with, and reaches up to cup Stiles’ jaw, angling his head so he can lick along his bottom lip an into his mouth. Stiles whimpers with the sensation and opens his mouth in invitation as Derek’s tongue licks along his bottom teeth. His hands slide up along Derek’s side, across his back until they’re slipping across his shoulders and slender fingers are carding through Derek’s soft hair, tugging slightly to bring him closer.

It’s heated, it’s pent up passion bursting free and it’s better than either of them thought it could be. They break apart, panting heavily, and rest their foreheads against the others, eyes closed until a laugh bubbles out of Stiles and Derek looks at him, smiling slightly in the dim light of the room.

“I’m a mess,” he says, damp jeans clinging to his legs and a slight trickle of blood running from one or two of the cuts along his ribs. He looks up and flashes his golden eyes at Derek again, who flashes his blue in return before he leans away and cleans up the blood smeared against Stiles’ ribcage.

He places a layer of synthetic skin against the cuts to Stiles’ stomach, holds Stiles’ hand as he injects the serum into Stiles’ arm and watches as the serum activates the healing properties in the chip in Stiles’ mind. The synthetic skin melds into Stiles’ own, knitting itself together with Stiles’ broken skin until all traces of any cuts or wounds are gone. The areas where his skin is healing glows a faint blue before disappearing altogether and Stiles is left whole and unscathed.

Derek gets up from where he was kneeling on the floor and holds out his hands for Stiles to take. Stiles’ hands slip into his easily and he pulls him up, leaning his forehead against his quickly before reaching for the shirt and jogging bottoms left on the table. He hands them over to Stiles and tells him to go get changed in the bedroom, that he will join him in a moment once he’s done cleaning up.

It doesn’t take long for Derek to clean up, placing the glass shards into a bag to dispose of in the morning, the bowl filled with water emptied and placed back in the cupboard beneath the sink along with the washcloth. By the time Derek is done sweeping everything up, his television is long forgotten, a program he doesn’t understand playing on the screen. He turns it off before turning off the lamp at the other end of the sofa and he stretches as he makes his way towards his bedroom. Stiles has already changed, his damp jeans and shirt forgotten in the corner that Derek rolls his eyes at, and he’s tucked up on the other side of the bed, the covers pulled up so that Derek can only see tufts of his hair peeking out of the top.

He lifts the covers on his side of the bed and slips in, burrowing beneath and covers and scooting forward until he’s in Stiles’ space, their breath ghosting against each other’s flushed cheeks. Stiles’ eyes slowly begin to illuminate the small space between them, casting a golden glow that becomes rivalled when Derek shines his blue eyes in return. He reaches out until he finds Stiles’ hand and slips his fingers between Stiles’, squeezing lightly before he brings their hands up between them and kisses Stiles’ hand. Stiles breath hitches for a moment before he scoots even closer, their bodies flush against each other now, and tangles their legs together. His eyes begin to dim and Derek does the same.

“Thanks Derek,” he whispers, eyelids growing heavy from exhaustion.

Derek leans forward ever so slightly and kisses Stiles’ forehead before he snuggles back down and whispers back, “Goodnight Stiles.”

The rain continues to fall throughout the night but the thunder and lightning has moved on, only the sound of rain hitting the window panes and the soft sound of Stiles and Derek sharing the same breath audible within the loft.

**Author's Note:**

> It's 3am and I need to sleep.
> 
> This didn't really turn out at all how it was originally meant to butt fuck it, we're gonna roll with it because I've attempted this fic too many times and I can't make it any better.
> 
> You can find me on twitter with @RainbowRandoms and on tumblr with Rainbow-Randomness


End file.
